Tuesday, June 24, 2014

To Be With You

A childhood
nightmare flashes. Standing alone, but
in a crowded courtyard. Aging brick
walls suffocate, paned glass mocks, trees whisper. Faces stare.
Silence prevails. I’m naked. My eyes plead to the crowd for help. No familiar face will extend a jacket. There are no familiar faces. Mumbles are exchanged between friends – the
words foreign to my ear. I stare at the
ground. Confused. Embarrassed.

***

Courtyard

I lift my
head. I awaken from the nightmare and
realize that I am clothed. No one is
staring. No one sees me. I am.
Invisible. Like a ghost, I stare
at my surroundings, unseen, felt, and acknowledged by the human forms around
me. I blink, then grasp my daughter’s
hand and lead her through the crowd towards her first full week of
kindergarten.

In the
Netherlands, children start public schooling the day after their fourth
birthday. Once we discovered we would be
extending, we set to work to figure out where to send our daughter. Two year waiting lists are common, and we
were clearly behind. Back in Texas, the
decision is made for you – parents send their children to the elementary school
closest to their home. The curriculum is
standard throughout the district, and in order to choose a different school
than the one assigned is not an easy task.
We had interviewed the international school in Leiden and were very
pleased with what we saw, but they wait until all children turn four years old
and start them together in September (as opposed to the day-after 4th-birthday-rule). Considering Baby Girl’s birthday is in April,
and our departure date is October, this was not a feasible option for us. We had even inquired of her Dutch daycare if
they’d be willing to accept her (and our money) after her fourth birthday and
they looked at us quizzically. “Why
would you send her here when you can send her to Dutch school for free? And either way – our waiting list is too
long. We need her spot.” Again, from our understanding, the Dutch
children are not required to go to
school until they turn five, with an optional start date of four. But this option has seemingly never been
exercised. We contacted a few
schools. Most said their waiting lists
were too long, but the school closest to us said they’d have a spot for her. (Schools in your neighborhood give precedent
to the children in the neighborhood.) We
made an appointment for a school tour.

November
2013 - The clouds did not
part and rain pours from above. V and I
enter the school and I am instantly reminded of my own elementary school in the
1980s. Red brick walls line the worn
staircase. Echoes and dim lighting
cascade shadows on the dusty formica floors. That unmistakable gym-smell
penetrates everything. This building
hasn’t been renovated in at least 40 years.
We are greeted and seated in the teachers’ lounge. I shift in the hard plastic chair as the introductions
are exchanged with the principal of the school.

She is an
elderly woman with short hair and a nice smile, and has been a part of the
school for decades. As she speaks, I
begin to relax a bit. “Oh yes – we have
a place here for Cosette,” she speaks in clear English. I nod.
We had not heard these words from anyone else. A guaranteed place. “Oh, and there is another girl, yes – who
speaks English in level zero class. We
can see that we put Cosette in her class. Yes?” Also good news. This lady is on a roll. “A tour now, yes?” I fumble with my purse. My husband grabs my hand to calm my nerves.

Level Zero Classroom

We enter the
first classroom and to my surprise, it looks much like what I’d picture a
kindergarten (or as they call it, level zero) class to look like - almost. A play house station is in the corner, bins
of legos line the walls, and a circle of small chairs surround a circular table
in the middle. I cock my head to the
side. Not only are there about 28 tiny
chairs (about twice the amount I would perhaps expect in an American school classroom) but they’re also covered in clothes. Pants, shirts, and shoes litter the backs and seats of each chair. “Oh yes – the children are at gym,” the principal says in way of explanation. When she sees my confusion deepen, she continues “Oh yes, see the children have gym in their underwear.” My eyes grow wide. “Yes, see, it’s much too hot for them to run around in their clothes and it’s too time consuming to change into gym clothes.” Visions of naked children kicking soccer balls does not compute in my American brain. I look to my husband for help. He gives me the look that says:Something is being lost in translation – it
will be okay, Honey. I nod and focus
my attention back to the principal. She’s pointing to the clothesline above the
teacher’s chair. Photos of the day’s
activities are pinned to the string. I
nod with appreciation. I like
schedules. The principal is pointing to
the pictures and explaining them to me.
“Yes, so in the morning, after the children hang up their coats, and put
away their bags, they sit in the circle and the teacher first reads them a
bible story.” My eyes grow wide, yet
again. Underwear and bible stories: two
phrases I wouldn’t hear during a tour of an American kindergarten. I look back at the art station. The principal is demonstrating a traffic
light. “There are so many children, you
see – the teacher can’t possibly attend to all of them at the same time, of
course. The children take their names
from the board and place them next to the station they’d like to play in. Each station has a limited number of
spots. The teacher directs the art
station. If the red light is on – it
indicates to the other children to not interrupt. If the green light is on – the children may
approach with questions, yes?” I
nod. I like this idea. “Oh – that’s nice. Where can I get one of those?” I smile.

We complete the
tour and we return to the office to receive the paperwork. “When do we need to return this form?” my
husband asks. “Well. . . as soon as
possible, of course. There are waiting
lists.” We nod. We understand. We have little other choice. The school is fine. The principal is warm. The school is half a mile from our home. Our daughter has been understanding and
speaking Dutch at her preschool for the past two years. The Dutch kindergarten should be good
experience for her. We fill out the
paperwork and return it the next week.

March 2014 - Because each child
comes into the classroom at different times, the classroom is well
established. Four sessions are scheduled
before her first day of school.
Parent-guided for a couple hours the first time, then she could attend
by herself for half a day. I like the
idea of this – introducing her (and us) into the new routine gradually.

My husband and
I awake on the day of her first ‘visitation’.
We dress both kids, ourselves, and head out the door and a flurry of
anticipation and nervousness. V had
thought we could bring Holden with us and the four of us could observe the
class together. I had my doubts. Upon arriving at the classroom, we are
introduced to the teacher. “Sorry, spreek
je Nederlands?” she asks. My husband
explains that he does, but that I do not.
She explains that she doesn’t speak English. I’m floored.
Besides a few aging repair men, everyone
in the country speaks English. The
teachers at their preschool have always conversed with me in English. I love
them. I’m Facebook friends with one
of them. I stare at this educated woman
in disbelief. Dread seeps through my
veins. She explains that only one parent
can attend the observation session, so clearly, my husband would be the one,
considering the language barrier. My
husband and Cosette enter the class and the door slams behind them. I peer into the window. My daughter, shy and small, blonde and
beautiful, dressed with hope and anticipation, sits in the tiny chair confused
and staring at the other 27 children. My
husband sits behind her in the circle.
My Baby Girl - my daily responsibility for the past two years - looks at
me through the window. I wave and turn
with tears stinging my eyes. The
mama. Shut. Out. I hoist Holden on my hip, hug him tight, and
pedal him over to the local park in the cold.

April 2014 – Cosette turns four on April
2nd, and on Thursday, April 3rd, we dress her in a new outfit, snap photos,
and pack her snack. We pedal over to her
school. My husband on his bike, the kids
and I on mine. I’m anxious. It’s a big day. We hang her hoodie, put her bag in the
cupboard, and help her find her seat.
After a flood of hugs and kisses, my husband and I grasp each other’s
hands, and with Holden, exit the

Official First Day of School

door. We pedal slowly home. We sip coffee and he works at the dining room
table. I split my time between idling
around the kitchen, playing with Holden, and watching the clock. Most of the school children stay until 3
p.m., but we’ve decided to pick her up at noon every day – at least for the
first few weeks. Vinny had originally
been scheduled for a business trip to the United States during her birthday and
first day of school. We were both relieved
he was able to change it and be here for this big week. Just as any parent would be after dropping
their first-born child off at their first day of school, we’re as nervous as we
are anxious. It’s compounded by the fact
that we’re in a foreign country, but we tell ourselves that she’ll be
fine. She’s been understanding and speaking
Dutch at preschool for the past two years.
She’ll make friends. She’ll learn
how a classroom operates. We are all
waiting outside the door at noon when she completes her first day. She smiles, says it went well, and Vinny and
I smile above her head, relieved.

The following
week, Vinny is in the United States. The
loneliness that occurs anytime he’s gone is intense and magnified. The week before, I had not noticed I was not
greeted by the teacher when I dropped Cosette off at school. I had not noticed that no other parent made
eye contact with me. We had reassured
ourselves of Cosette’s comfort level being a part of a Dutch classroom, but I
had not anticipated how I would feel as a parent. My experience with their preschool was very
similar to the one I had in America – I have a relationship with their teachers, and the other parents are
friendly. Their teachers and I discuss
our concerns about the children. They
want to teach and share their culture with my family and are curious about
Texas. Starting my daughter at the new
school makes all the insecurities, nervous-vibes, and invisible-like feelings I
felt our first few months after moving here resurface. I’m surprised at how vulnerable and clueless
I feel. The teachers do little to
provide any reassurance.

During her first
full week, I lock my bike in the courtyard.
I stare at the buildings and people around me. I blink, then grasp my daughter’s hand and
lead her through the crowd. I walk her into
the classroom and encourage her to choose a book from the table before she
finds her seat. Her hand is in her
mouth, she hesitates. She does not
speak, but points to a book similar to the one we have at home. She smiles when she sees it – it is something
familiar, and slowly moves towards it.
Another girl in the class watches our interaction and moves
swiftly. She grabs the book, presses it
to her chest, and rushes to her seat. My
daughter and I stand there, stunned. I’m
new at this. I blink and encourage
Cosette to pick another book. Later, I
ask the teacher about the interaction and explain that I found the girl to be a
bit rude – and if that behavior was appropriate. She shrugs as if to say, of course. I cock my head as if to say, really? “Oh yes, in America I suppose the classrooms
are - how do you say – quite severe?”
she challenges. I raise an eyebrow.

Weeks later, my
daughter comes home with bruises on her arms.
“The boys at school grabbed my arms on the playground and would not let
go.” She says. “My arms hurt, Mama.” I ask who the boys were and what the teacher
did. I recognize their names. They are 6-year old boys who tower above her. She explains that the boys were sent to
time-out. I’m upset that 6-year old boys
are beating up 4-year old girls on
the playground, but more than that, I’m upset that the teacher didn’t bother to
tell me. V confronts the teacher the
next day. “Well, of course – I was not
here yesterday,” (the teacher who prefers to not speak English to me works
Mon-Wed, and this is Thursday’s teacher), “but I can tell you that. . . in
America, I hear that you must sign a form for every little scratch,” and
again. A shrug. Dumbfounded, V slinks away with the Paranoid
American hat on that she’s just handed him.
He calls me and explains the interaction. I’m livid – after 2 ½ years of learning,
understanding, and embracing many facets of the Dutch culture, lectures in
cultural shortcomings is not what I was looking for.

Pregnant with 2 kids, pedaling my 'bakfiets' to Dutch school

June 2014– In retrospect, I now realize
the importance of researching the schools far in advance before children turn
four years old. Not all schools are
created equal. My husband and I are currently
researching and weighing options for the fall.
As with many things, the Home in Leiden website has been an invaluable
resource. I have heard from many Dutch
parents that the school Cosette attends currently has high ratings and a good curriculum. Ultimately, I think our decision comes down
to where we feel most comfortable, and of course, every child is different. After such a positive experience with their
Dutch preschool, I feel strongly that there’s a school out there that suits my
daughter’s needs and makes me feel comfortable.
We just have to cross our fingers that we’ll find it and that the
waiting list isn’t too long. No one
wants to be invisible.

Hold on little girlShow me what he's done to youStand up little girlA broken heart can't be that bad

When it's through, it's throughFate will twist the both of youSo come on baby, come on overLet me be the one to show you

I'm the one who wants to be with youDeep inside I hope you feel it tooWaited on a line of greens and bluesJust to be the next to be with you

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5 comments:

It's really too bad that the school isn't working out - but you've got to do the best for your family. We lucked out with the school that my 4 yo has been attending since November with caring and attentive teachers that seem to accept our American cultural "oddities" and have really helped my son learn more Dutch. But we'll have to find a new school when we move out of the neighborhood this summer, and of course I'm worried that we won't get so lucky this time. I hope you find something that suits you!

I am ashamed of my collegues and fellow countrymen. How can they be so uncaring? Of course I encourage parents to speak Dutch, but I will never refuse to speak another language with them. I don't speak Spanish but one of the moms does and I speak very slow and easy Dutch to her and she speaks half English/half Spanish to me. It is important there is contact between the parents and the teacher.

And yes, there is a difference between America and Holland about how we deal with minor incidents at school. But this is straigth forward bullying, by kids who were on a time-out (so why were they outside?!)I am sorry your daughter had to experience that. And I am ashamed of how the teacher handled that.

I trust you will find a school where you will be welcomed. (though in this case it feels more like the teacher is the problem than the school is)

About Me

Celeste is an American expat who has been living in Leiden, The Netherlands since January 2012. She made the leap from Texas with her husband, two small children, and two large dogs. She's an ex-accountant who has adapted to her new role as full-time-Mom (with a part-time job) in a new country. Eleanor Roosevelt's advice, "Do one thing every day that scares you," isn't necessarily optional in her daily life.